Couldn’t see self—beauty, nor ugliness, quite young.
Time is intimate with aging. Data lagged in space. To locate self, I had to
unlock clarity—harder in awakening. Looking for origin, self-splayed, torpor
lingering, misery becoming happiness, as defended in philosophy.
While more is seduced, less seems fulfilling, if
thought pursues a labyrinth; increased silence, decreased centering, the
culture of the winds: too whimsy, defies control.
Most
creative muse—to sound pensive—to redo birth, several times in life. Faced by
the machinery under memories traipsing into déjàvu moving into nostalgia.
No
greater triumph—than winning the war of 24 hours—the celebration of those
minutes, faced by a galloping monster.
Out
of pessimism comes hope—if willing to train—both thought and faith—to build
beyond fear, to outwit despair, on realistic pegs.
The
fever is inherited, becoming familiar, settling into a dynasty: to have been
written into creeds.
